


When Time and Place Collide

by orbiting_saturn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Touching Dean is Sam's comfort and if he can't have any of the other things he wants for himself, he'll take this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Time and Place Collide

They're at a point where the difference in their ages should feel massive and insurmountable, but somehow it doesn't. Sam too old for his knobby kid bones and Dean feels forever young with his big kid heart. If they could switch bodies, things might make better sense, but they can't do that and soon it becomes a game of squishing as close as they can. They touch each other because they can't help it, like crawling into the other is the only sweet escape they can ever hope to find.

Sam has always squeezed himself snug to Dean, wherever they sit, thighs and arms brushing. Sometimes Dean will curl his arm all the way around Sam's narrow shoulders, drag him into the muscled curve of Dean's torso where he can smell a day's worth of sweat and the gelled deodorant under his arm.

Sam has to act like it's a chore to cuddle up with his tactile brother on couches and motel beds, for some reason can't let it be known that it's his very favorite place to be. Because he's not a kid anymore, doesn't need to be babied with Dean's blunt fingers ruffling his hair, smoothing down the nape of his neck. But then, not being a kid anymore, it's not just comfort anymore. It's a melty urge bubbling in his belly, a tingle all along the too-thin skin slapped over his long thick bones.

After a while Sam will stop pretending, press his cheek to Dean's chest and let his breath slow down, his eyes drift hazy and just listen to the steady beat of his brother's heart. Sam'll rub his temple into the worn cotton of Dean's tee, tight enough he can feel Dean's nipple pebble up and graze him back. No matter where they are, no matter how many miles chewed up between this place and the last one, Sam can scrub his nose into the soft warmth of Dean and smell home.

Some days later, Dean and him sparring in the backyard that's more dirt than it is grass. Dean's wearing a white v-neck undershirt that's already streaked brown in places and a smile about ten miles wide. He dances past Sam's reach most times and when he doesn't, Sam is sure it's on purpose. Frustration mounts and breaks in Sam, never fast as Dean, never strong as Dean, body all-wrong and Dean thinks it's cute. His eyes say he thinks _Sam_ is cute. Done with punching, done with kicking and stumbling over his feet when Dean ducks in and slaps his cheeks, Sam gives a growl and lunges in.

They tumble to the ground, legs tangled as they roll and roll and roll, pressed all flush and Dean is laughing loud and too happy. It's all deep and throaty, a thrilling spill of warmth spread all over Sam's neck. Dean ends up on top. Of course he does. "If you wanted to wrassle, all you had to do was say," Dean rasps around his grin, pinning Sam with a forearm over his skinny chest.

Sam huffs a sigh and can't think for how Dean is all over him, weighting him to the lumpy ground, one thick thigh between Sam's. Dean's free hand swipes the sweaty bangs off of Sam's forehead. "Feel better now, dork? Got it all outta your system?" he asks, but the teasing is mild, distracted. He's staring blearily into the dip of Sam's throat.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, but it's not the tackle he apologizes for. It's for the way he's got his ankle hooked around Dean's calf and can't seem to let go.

"'S'okay," Dean says, grin going crooked and lazy. His arm drags over Sam's chest, palm flat and gliding up, up to curve around Sam's throat. "You can tackle me whenever, Sammy."

Dean's face falls forward and nuzzles against Sam, nose nudging down behind Sam's ear where he takes a deep breath, scenting him. "I can feel your hard-on, ya know?"

For some insane reason, Sam laughs. Maybe because he didn't realize that he was hard until Dean brought it up. Maybe because he was focused on the dig of _Dean_ , hard against his hip. Who could think about their own dick when they have something like _that_ destroying their mind? "Yours too," he finally gasps out in response, not really caring about anything other than Dean's lips rubbing, rubbing, rubbing at the curve of his jaw.

Dean rocks against Sam, firm length lined up all neat and tidy in the cut of his skinny hip, burning hot through two layers of denim. As he undulates in these smooth, rolling waves, Dean drags his hand down slow, like he's waiting for Sam to object. Slow, over Sam's nipple, slow, fingers curving and bumping over Sam's ribs, slow, lingering on Sam's hipbone.

"Want me to stop?" Dean asks then, hand stilled but his hips keep pushing into Sam. Dean doesn't want to stop. Sam can feel it in Dean's grip on him, the greedy crush of his body, the wavering little breaths bursting hot and moist in the hiding place Dean's made of Sam's neck.

Sam grins, face aching under the sudden split. "Hell no," he answers his brother and nothing has ever been truer. Sam is harder than he's ever been in his life and Dean's hand is _right there_ , just inches from where Sam needs it to be.

At Sam's words, Dean licks a long slow stripe up to his ear, breath shuddering in excitement. He's grinding hard into Sam, churning against him all tight and needy, while his fingertips follow the line of Sam's waistband. They're clumsy on the fly, taking three tries at the button and two at the zipper. "Wanna hear something crazy?" Dean asks so close to Sam's ear that it echoes through his brain.

Dean's hand dips into the slit of Sam's boxers, carefully, carefully pulls his dick out. Sam can't answer because his teeth are cutting deep into his lower lip, holding back a moan, staving off the orgasm that tried to rocket up from his balls the second Dean got his fingers on him.

"I think about you all the time," Dean confesses. His fingers curl just tight enough, stroke once, long and slow and Sam is losing his mind from how fucking good it feels. "It's fucked up, right? Thinking about touching you like this." Dean's words punctuated with another stroke, thumb coming up to glide along over Sam's slit where he's leaking like a faucet.

Sam's been lying all splayed out, arms useless and rock-heavy, soaking dirt onto his damp skin. Now seems the right time to change that, so Sam's grabbing onto Dean, filling his palms with his brother, all muscles and skin sweaty-hot under cotton and denim and writhing right where he needs to be. "What else do you think about?" Sam asks, near-choking on a groan Dean works out of him.

Dean's palm is rough, but slick, touching him in the one place he never has, least not since Sam can remember. "Think about- think about all your skin, touching it everywhere. Like it's mine, fuckin' greedy for it, Sam. _Fuck_ ," Dean grunts, rutting hard into Sam, a low whine gritting out behind Sam's ear in his hair.

This close to blowing his load, Dean's hand wringing at his dick, Sam bucks up and swallows back that crazy-making urge to just spill. Just a little more, just a little longer, Sam wants to do this all damn day. "Think about being inside you," Dean whispers, dirty-talk secret just for Sam. "Or you in me."

Battle lost, Sam throws his head back, neck arching under Dean's seeking mouth, and comes. He spills across Dean's magic hand and the strip of his bared belly. It splatters over him, warm and thick and clinging.

Dean makes a lost needy noise and pushes up on his knees, still straddling one of Sam's thighs. Sam lies there in broken angles, melting into the hard-packed dirt and watches under lowered lids while Dean tears open his fly. Dean's cock is full and angry-red, leaking at the tip, ready to burst. The hand still coated in Sam's come wraps it up quickly, starts stripping furiously while the other hand snags the hem of Sam's t-shirt and shoves it up to his armpits.

Palm flat in the center of Sam's chest, Dean pins him down and strokes himself hard and quick, eyes hungry on Sam's open, panting mouth. The way Dean's staring, the way he's moving, all desperate thrusts and grinds into his curled fingers, has Sam's spent dick twitching almost painfully. Sam makes use of his hands, grasps Dean's swaying hips, feels every lunge and twist while his brother fucks his fist fast and filthy above him.

Dean's breath catches, a moan caught in his throat, while he jerks and finishes. Sam watches Dean's face, lashes fallen against his freckled cheeks, mouth open on his silent cry while his come joins the mess already cooling on Sam's belly. "Sam," Dean breathes. "Sammy."

It's so perfectly fucked up, the way Dean wavers above him, trembling through his aftershocks. Sam drinks up the sight, slides his hands into the small of Dean's back and urges him down, slowly, gently. The crush of Dean's torso against his smears the wet mess they've left on Sam's skin, slowly soaks it into the soft cotton of Dean's shirt.

Dean hides his face in Sam's neck again and Sam patiently waits for his brother to start freaking out. He doesn't have any arguments for what they've done. It shouldn't have happened, but it has and Sam can't bring himself to regret it. That's probably what's most fucked up about this, that he knows the wrong of it and wants it anyway. Touching Dean is Sam's comfort and if he can't have any of the other things he wants for himself, he'll take this.

The low rumble of laughter that spills out of Dean is unexpected but welcome. A slow smile stretches across Sam's face in response while Dean punctuates his laughter with wet kisses on Sam's sweaty skin. "Awesome, Sammy," Dean murmurs, kitten licks at Sam's earlobe. "We're a couple of sick freaks, huh?"

Sam sneaks his hands under Dean's shirt, flattens them over sweaty skin. Dean is stroking his fingertips through the sticky streaks on Sam's belly, tickling lightly, bringing up goosebumps despite the hundred-degree heat.

"Speak for yourself," Sam finally responds. "I'm just a horny teenager."

Dean jerks back, props himself up on his arms and stares at Sam. There's a hint of worried shame sneaking its way onto Dean's face before he catches Sam's playful grin, the teasing wink he throws into the mix. Dean's face softens and he smirks. "You little bitch."

"Jerk," Sam replies warmly and arches up to catch Dean's mouth in a kiss, the first of thousands to come.


End file.
